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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315373">Figurines.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoodlesDoodles1/pseuds/NoodlesDoodles1'>NoodlesDoodles1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Floris | Fundy Angst, Floris | Fundy Needs A Hug, Floris | Fundy-centric, Gen, Happy Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:16:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,175</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315373</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoodlesDoodles1/pseuds/NoodlesDoodles1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fundy could feel his father’s hands on his right now, guiding them towards the final product. It was probably just the wind, or his mind merely playing a cruel trick on him, but it felt so real he could not help but believe it to be true. He wanted it to be true. It was comforting to think that as a ghost or whatever happens in the afterlife, Wilbur still cared. Wilbur did love him. Wilbur was there for him.<br/>And then his figurine was finished.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Figurines.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hihi!! Wooooo<br/>Okay so I was watching Fundy the other day and he did that thing where subs would get into the Dream SMP as these little figurine things. I talked to a friend about it and my mind was suddenly spiked with motivation to write something up based on what she had said. So thanks for the idea lol<br/>Here is a bit of an angsty piece about that concept, with carpenter Fundy.<br/>Everything in this is strictly PLATONIC, except for the minor reference to Fundy's wedding (I know it's not canon in the SMP but shh, also please note I don't ship them!!)<br/>Please enjoy my unedited ramble woo!!</p><p>T/W: Swearing, references to bad parenting and alchohol, angst</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fundy sat by the window, ears perked up as he listened to the crackle and spit of the fire in its hearth. The stool he sat on was crafted and painted by hand, chips in the legs from wear and tear. He slipped gloves onto his hands, a soft leather in material that was gifted to him by his ex-lover. Memories of such gloves were bittersweet – he recalled late-night movies and candlelit dinners, but also acrimonious arguments and sour rejections. He clenched the small knife in his right hand, and a clump of wood in the other, freshly chopped by his own doing. The axe lay by the door, the handle wrapped with bandage for extra comfort and grip.</p><p>Fundy began to whittle away at the wood, his tongue stuck out in deep concentration, eyes narrowed with focus. He hummed a gentle song to himself as he worked, tapping his foot in beat every so often to keep himself preoccupied. As the wood began to take shape, his rested face turned into more and more of a grin, the product becoming more and more lifelike by the second. He placed the knife down, and twisted the wood in his hand, examining each subtle feature. The next step was the painting – he picked up the brush between his fingers and watched as the colour began to splash onto the small figurine, representing the person he based it on with each stroke.</p><p>Tubbo.</p><p>What was there to say about Tubbo?</p><p>He smiled, closing his eyes in contempt.</p><p>Tubbo, perhaps the greatest friend this cruel world could ever have gifted him. That cheerful grin never failed to put one on Fundy’s face too. Tubbo just seemed to understand. He understood Fundy’s anxieties and concerns, he was incredibly empathetic and just overall a great guy. Maybe Tubbo was his only friend in this fucked up world. No matter their past, the present, or the future, Tubbo would be there for him. He somehow just knew.</p><p>Yet, Fundy understood that he was not Tubbo’s greatest friend. Tubbo had Ranboo, Jack and Tommy. He often watched silently as Tubbo would bounce between the trio, complimenting their traits almost perfectly and bonding together. Tubbo was happy enough with them. Fundy was just the side character, the ignored kid of the world who led an empty lie of a revolution.</p><p>He shuddered.</p><p>
  <em>Why would the brunette ever need him too?</em>
</p><p>He sighed, and pushed the figurine to the side, letting it bask in the sunlight to dry. It was time to move on.</p><p>Just as before, he picked up the pieces of timber, and began to whittle away at them again, pieces of wood flaking off. Over and over. And just as before, he retrieved the paints and decorated each figurine.</p><p>Dream.</p><p>The tyrant who destroyed the land, and eventually, himself. He was wasting away in prison, probably clutching onto the bars, and begging for human contact so he did not full further into a spiral of fucking insanity. Maybe he now understood the pain he caused to all the nations of this world, the world he was meant to guard and protect. Fundy was glad he was locked up now. He deserved it.</p><p>Eret.</p><p>The father he never had. Fundy would never be able to describe how much that day stung – excitedly running up to his potential father with adoption papers and a quill, ink freshly dipped in the nib. The king took it gratefully, and never showed his face to him again. He left. Disappeared into thin air, not to mutter another word to him that could ever justify missing such a big day.</p><p>Phil.</p><p>His “grandfather” by blood, but not much else. Fundy remembered so clearly that day, the vicious words that spat out of Phil’s mouth as he pledged the fact that he was disowning his own grandson. The only one Fundy truly had left abandoned him for a terrorist of L’Manburg. That man meant nothing to him, but as much as he tried to deny it, he missed him. He missed the fishing trips and the cosy afternoons where they just sat and talked with a cup of tea. He missed it all.</p><p>Schlatt.</p><p>That fucker. Destroyed Manburg and died right after. Not even a goodbye. Fundy thought he was something. Turns out he was just a fraud, addicted to all kinds of substances that he had not known about until he had met him. Schlatt always reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and was always yelling. He never stopped yelling. To think that Fundy looked up to that decrepit man once before, like a father figure of some kind… it physically hurt. He hated Schlatt. More than anything.</p><p>Tommy.</p><p>Fundy could not say much about Tommy. The obnoxious, loud kid who was stubborn and stood up for what he believed to be right. He caused some of the most chaos on the server, usually not for the better, but he caused it either way. He had a close bond with Wilbur when the man was alive, and almost everyone in the land knew who he was. There was not much to say about Tommy, though. The things that had happened to him was tragic. He felt bad sometimes.</p><p>Fundy picked up the final bit of wood, hands shaking as he began to whittle away at the piece.</p><p>Fundy could remember feeling his father’s hands on his, guiding their movements as he held the knife. He recalled the good old days when he was but a child, when Wilbur was actually around, brushing the wood shavings off of him and bandaging his hands up when he nicked his palm or fingers on the blade. He remembered the gentle words of encouragement his father offered and the quiet laughs and small gasps of happiness upon seeing Fundy’s work. He recalled the repeated pats on his head as his father ruffled his hair.</p><p>Fundy could feel his father’s hands on his right now, guiding them towards the final product. It was probably just the wind, or his mind merely playing a cruel trick on him, but it felt so real he could not help but believe it to be true. He wanted it to be true. It was comforting to think that as a ghost or whatever happens in the afterlife, Wilbur still cared. Wilbur did love him. Wilbur was there for him.</p><p>And it was finished.</p><p>He picked up the brush, and began to paint the details on, almost on autopilot as he indulged in the few fond memories he had of his father. Playing chess together, painting, sowing the uniform of L’Manburg, playing tag, kicking a ball about. Fundy did not get much time with his father. Each memory ended the same way - Wilbur leaving him to discuss with Tommy.</p><p>
  <em>‘You’re leaving?’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Sorry Fundy, grown up business.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘But you promised you would spend the day with me!’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Sorry, champ. This is important. How about I put it all aside and we spend the day together tomorrow?’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘But-’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Who’s my little champion?’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Me.’</em>
</p><p>Fundy held the figurine in his hands. It was finished.</p><p>There was his father. Not in the L’Manburg uniform, not in that dreaded trench coat. He was in a simple sweater, yellow in colour. It was him before everything went sour – before he turned insane and abandoned Fundy entirely. He missed that Wilbur. Yet he had grown to resent him, every version of him.</p><p>“Who was more important to you, Wil?” He asked, his eyes drifting from the figurine of his father to another, “You told Tommy you were proud of him. You told Tommy that he was a good man. That you were wrong about him. Did you ever say that to me? To poor old fucking Fundy Soot. Your own goddamn son. I loved you, Wilbur! I loved you, I thought you were telling me the truth, but you are a goddamn monster. You're filled to the brim with nothing but lies and empty promises in that shell of a man you are.</p><p>I would hardly even call you a man. What man leaves his child without even saying goodbye? You just fucking died on me! No letter, no note, no message. Not even a farewell! Nothing! You were a shit dad. You were never there for me, you always abandoned me when it suited you, and blamed it on the fact that you were building a nation for me. Guess what, Wil? That nation is gone. It crumbled by your hands. You destroyed what was meant to be my home, my paradise. The place where I would be safest. The place made in my name, made just for me. A place where people could go and be safe, to escape the brutality and tyranny of the rulers of this land. You became what you wanted to keep us safe from. You ruined it. All of it. I hope you're hearing this, wherever you may be. Whether that's hell or limbo, I don't give a fuck. </p><p>Fuck you.</p><p>I hope you are proud of yourself.”</p><p>He clenched the figurine tighter. Raising his shaky arms, he smashed it onto the floor, watching as it splintered into pieces and slid across the ground. In a fit of rage, Fundy grabbed the figurine of Tommy from the shelf and repeated the same movement, destroying it immediately. Steadying his breath, he tugged on his ears, attempting to ease it all. He brought his knees up to his chin, and stared at the shattered remnants of the wood, tears beginning to streak down his face.</p><p>He was not mad at Tommy. There was no justified reason for him to be.</p><p>He was jealous.</p><p>He longed for what Tommy had with Wilbur – that jokey, platonic relationship where they both actually cared for each other. Where Wilbur actually made it clear he appreciated his friend, where he put the energy and time in and genuinely showed that he was willing to sacrifice it all for him. Fundy wanted to be the one that ran for president by his father’s side, fighting with him in the court and designing posters to advocate for their winning – instead, he found himself standing at the opposite podium, staring his opponent down. He wanted Wilbur to have actually been there. To have treated him like a person, not just a dispensable object or a burden.</p><p>To actually have loved him.</p><p>Fundy’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed. He pulled his cap over his eyes, hiding himself away. He wanted to be away from it all. From the fighting, from the crying, from the death, from the decay of a nation, from it all. He wanted all the troubles to disappear so he could just live. He wanted someone to be there for him, someone to tell him that they were proud, that they loved him. To be the person Wilbur could never have been.</p><p>A bell chimed as someone stepped into his home.</p><p>“Fundy! I knocked, but you didn’t seem to answer.” The voice was comforting. Familiar, “You still up to hang…? Oh-”</p><p>He felt a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“You okay? Wait, no, I know you’re not.” Tubbo laughed in his own awkwardness, causing Fundy to giggle slightly too. He gratefully accepted a tissue from Tubbo, tucking it into his pocket to save for when the tears had calmed. </p><p>He slid down to his knees and sat beside his friend, wrapping an arm around his shoulder tentatively, “You wanna talk about it?”</p><p>“Not really.” Fundy mumbled, nuzzling his chin further into his knees. Tubbo nodded, humming in understanding.</p><p>He stood up and paced over to the shelf the figurines were rested on. He picked one up and examined it, smiling gently.</p><p>“Eret, Phil, Schlatt, Dream… and me! Surely not, Fundy! This is incredible! Did you make them?”</p><p>Fundy nodded slowly, lifting his head from his knees. His cheeks were stained with tears, but Tubbo did not seem to mind. He simply kept quietly chatting to Fundy, being patient with the fox’s quiet responses. Within a few minutes, Tubbo had grabbed a dustpan and a small brush, cleaning up the pieces of wood so that Fundy would not hurt himself. Continuing to make general small talk, Tubbo put the kettle on and made Fundy a cup of his own special recipe of tea. It was renowned amongst the people close to Tubbo, being incredibly unique and delectable in its taste.  </p><p>“Thank you.” He mumbled, wiping his eyes and taking the mug from Tubbo. He took a couple of sips, blotting his cheeks dry of tears with tissue in-between each taste. With a deep breath, Fundy stood up, and brushed himself off.</p><p>"You up to hang?" Tubbo asked, smiling gently.</p><p>"Yeah, I'm up for it." Fundy responded, clearing his throat, "Thank you." </p><p>“Come on then, let's go! Ranboo is waiting for us.” Tubbo nodded, extending his hand. Fundy took it gratefully, nodding in agreement.</p><p>The pair left the house together, chatting as they traversed to meet up with Ranboo.</p>
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